


One Man's Queen

by ArdeaWrites



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Beren & Luthien, Beren gets captured a lot, Do silmarils take away free will, F/M, Luthien grows up and decides to get things done, Power Dynamics, Rescue Missions, Shapeshifting, Short Chapters, Silmarillion - Freeform, Slow Burn, Tevildo prince of cats - Freeform, like rescue her distressed dude Beren, magic cats, riddle games
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2019-11-13 06:36:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18026630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArdeaWrites/pseuds/ArdeaWrites
Summary: There's no space on the throne for Luthien and no refuge in the world for Beren. What they want, they build for themselves.





	1. Kingdom of One

**Author's Note:**

> This is a mix n' match of the various versions, because Beren must be a Man, but the Prince of Cats is too good to pass up. Writing exercise spawned by contemplating the power dynamic between Beren and Luthien. I am not good with proper nouns in reference to real people; for fictional characters with three or four different cannon names, I'm hopeless. Forgive me if I'm not using your preferred character name. I consider it a success if it's spelled mostly right.

She smelled him first. 

Unwashed body and sweat-soaked clothing, bloodied hands and bitter mouth, scents no elf would ever carry. The reek of him wafted through the trees like a broken tether; it should have leashed him to his own people, it marked him as an outsider and a trespasser. 

Foreigner. Dangerous. 

She knew the warnings, as she knew her mother’s magic and the labyrinth that held back the great darkness of Melkor’s reign. She danced fearless because she knew what to fear. 

And it was not this smelly, bearded creature. 

He smelled like fear and sickness, but he fought like a wildcat in a snare. 

She wondered if she could capture and heal him, then release him outside the girdle. Would he find his way back to his own kind? At least it would improve the forest. 

Her brother said the smell was just leavings from the hunt and ordered the serving folk to clear away the hunters’ offal. 

But when the strange human met her gaze, she knew he was more than the short, scruffy beard, the wide, fearful eyes and the dirty leather armor. Fate clung to him, fate stronger than her mother’s magic and prouder than her father’s crown. 

But he was just a man, and a man tired and alone. 

She kept her brother away from the glade, sending him on errands far across the forest on days she went to see him. 

He was scared of her. She wondered if he’d seen an elf before, or when he’d last seen anything but beasts and orcs. He watched her from the shadows like one entranced, but he never spoke, never moved towards her, and when at last she met his eyes, he fled noiselessly as a buck. 

She left a wrapped cake of scented soap and a soft linen towel at his hiding place. 

Two days later, she recognized the smell of her own soap before she smelled him. 

Civilized, she thought. It was a good first step. 

She danced for him, especially for him, that day, thanking him wordlessly for making use of her gift. 

He vanished for three days, but on the fourth he was back, and she smelled blood. He had hunted and killed, and he ate his kill raw, animal-like. Did he fear fire? Probably. A man crossing the iron mountains alone would learn fire drew orcs and wolves. She left him bread. It disappeared, and she hoped he ate it. 

He was almost her height, narrow-face and narrow-chested from hunger, and while he slunk through the forest with a peculiar mix of predatory wariness, he faced her with his head high and lips shut tight. Only the tremble in his fingertips betrayed him. 

She hesitated, and he fled. 

Food was easy to acquire. The kitchens were kept well stocked by elves gifted in cooking and preserving foods, and the gardens produced the finest fruits in all seasons. She took to leaving him wrapped packages and wondered which he liked better, the food or her dancing. 

After she danced she sat in the glade, facing not entirely towards and not away from his hiding place. She played her pipes, or read her scrolls, or wove her handloom, and waited. Sometimes she sang, and then one day she just talked. 

She told him about the forest and the glade and about how she’d first found it as a child, trying to escape the ridged etiquette of her father’s hall. She told him of her mother’s magic and how he had nothing to fear in the forest, not past the girdle of protection. And she wondered, not for the first time, how he had crossed her mother’s labyrinth. 

He did not reply but when she looked up, he was sitting with his back to the tree, his eyes closed. She stood and he was gone. 

She asked her mother about the girdle and what effect its magic might have on a mortal. 

The answer worried her. No mortal might pass the girdle save through war or great force, and if they did, its power would follow them with a driving madness. They would know no peace until they were out of the forest. Every moment inside would be terror. 

And if greater terror was without? 

Then pity the poor mortal who turned both greater powers of the earth against themselves, for caught between the hammer of Melkor and the will of Melan, who could hope to stand? Daily they wove their magic and strove against one another. 

When she saw him again, she saw the signs of her mother’s magic in his darting eyes and trembling hands, just as she saw the marks of Melkor’s power in the scars on his arms and the notched sword on his hip. But when his eyes followed her, they were calm. When she danced, his hands stilled. 

She was the antidote to her mother’s enchantment and the salve to his wounds. 

The thought warmed her all over. She had never held power over another before. The kingdom’s power rested with her king father and enchantress mother, and as a child of immortals there was no kingdom for her, no throne or rulership to anticipate. 

But here was a mortal man strong enough to cross her mother’s magic and he worshiped the ground beneath her feet. It was a powerful, terrible thought. 

She brought him a new knife and a length of cloth from her own loom, and when she saw him next his beard was trimmed and he wore the cloth like an elven lord. For once, he wore no armor. 

She sat and told him of her father’s court, of the trivialities there and the daily goings-on, as he slept in the shadow of his tree. How long had it been since someone kept watch for him? How long had he traveled alone, stealing sleep in scattered moments, always listening for a step or blade? He slept as long as she talked. 

He was not a beautiful man. She knew beauty in the elves of her father’s court; she knew refined artisans and powerful warriors, elves quick of foot, skilled in riding, legendary on a battlefield, and this mortal was none of them. Even clean, his features were coarse and heavy, his face rough from wind and cold, skin blistered from sun. His nose had been broken and his teeth were not straight. His eyes were hooded and already his skin lined with worry. In every way he was a creature from outside her world and as his smell had once disgusted her, so did the thought of what had formed him this way. Was the world outside her kingdom’s borders so terrible as to deform a man into this state? Was the roughness, the loss of smooth skin and the sacrifice of personal care required for mere survival? 

She wanted to ask him but was afraid he would never answer her, so she played her flute as she danced instead, and brought him new shoes of soft stitched leather. 

Then one day as he slept, she approached him. She knelt near his hiding place and boldly she crept close. She sat against the same tree, just a little around its bole, her fingers splayed in the clean earth and bright moss. She wondered if she felt his heartbeat through the warm wood. 

“You are my only subject and this is our kingdom,” she said, when she heard him stir, “but I do not even know your name. A queen should know her subjects, even if it’s just one. What should I call you, forest man? I would do you the honor of your true name, when I address you before my court.” 

“I am Beren,” he answered her, his voice rough and faint with disuse. “I deserve not the honor of my name on your lips.” 

“But I would hear you call me by mine,” she said, shocked at her own boldness. “I am Luthien Tinuvel.” 

“Queen of the glade?” 

“Aye,” she laughed. “Queen of the glade. My father rules the forest and my mother enchants its borders, so I rule only the tiny places between them.” 

“What business does a princess of your kind have with a poor forest man such as I?” he asked, his voice a bare whisper. 

“You are my subject,” she repeated. “My only one. You have seen me dance and eaten my food, you wear my colors and sleep under my watch. I am your queen, am I not?” 

“Aye, queen and keeper,” he replied. “Surely your father would have me imprisoned, if he knew I trespassed and looked upon his daughter without his permission.” 

“My father rules the forest; he does not rule me.” Her words were haughty but she knew in her heart Beren spoke the truth. She had named herself his queen, and that meant she must protect him. 

Suddenly their little glade seemed tiny and dangerous, a small oasis of freedom but with enemies all about. Her father would imprison him, if not slay him, upon discovery, and her mother would empty his mind of all memory of the forest, the glade, the dancing… of her, she realized. If he lived, he would be a prisoner or a witless, and if he died, his blood would be on her account. 

She pressed her fingers to her lips and thought, what have I done? 

“My queen, I would beg of you a boon.” 

“Speak, it shall be yours.” 

“Teach me your dance. Perhaps it be my last, and if I am to die here, I would rather it at your feet than on a battlefield or at the executioner’s block. I am a trespasser and my days are numbered. I am glad of our meeting, that you have made my last days comfortable and returned strength to me, but there is no escape from this enchanted place and for the hunted man, final rest in your court seems a fair end.” 

She stood suddenly and ran. She ran lightly, blindly, knowing the forest would do her no harm, knowing she might run forever and never reach its edge. It held her as she held him, prisoners together. When she reached her own rooms deep in her father’s castle, she wept.


	2. Favor for a King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beren goes forth as his queen's champion to win their freedom, and Luthien learns something about herself.

She knew the scorn Thingol would heap on the forest man. But when she remembered the dance she’d taught Beren, his skin under her fingertips, the catch in his breath when she touched his hand, his face… 

Their joy would end. Fate did not drive them to peace, not yet, not in the shadow of her mother’s power. Of this she was certain. 

And equally so, certain her father would have his word. He was king of his own realm and was unused to being defied. She had set herself as queen, named herself, woven her fate with Beren’s, and now she held her lips tight and her heart still, her feet firm on the ground. Today was not a day for dancing. Today was a day for war, the first siege of her reign. 

Thingol sat easy on his throne, Melian silent beside him. His gaze was sharp but his voice mocking; he had already dismissed the mortal before him as passing chaff, unworthy of his attention. “Few of your kind have stood before me, fewer still as free and proud. What boon would you ask, mortal wayfarer, before we set you back beyond our borders?” 

Luthien’s heart leapt as Beren turned to look upon her. “I ask to be made free to serve my queen,” he said. “Grant me leave to bow before her, to pledge my life to hers, now and forever, short though mortal years may be. Let my final days be spent in her service, at her side, and in her courts.” 

Horror and fury slew the smile on king Thingol’s lips, even as his courts bit back their laughter. Luthien gathered her power like a cloak and held her anger silent. Let her father’s kin mock, let her father burn in wrath. Let the people see her a child playing at womanhood while a mortal groveled for her favor. She met her mother’s eye and saw there the truth Melian knew, that the fate of the mortal had caught them all. The cold iron will of Thingol was nothing before the bright, brief flame of Beren. 

Even as he flushed in shame he held himself proud as any elven king, sure as their greatest warrior. He wore her colors. He served her word, not her father, and no royal mockery would stay him from her purpose. 

Then Thingol smiled. “You seek my daughter’s hand, mortal? What a small thing he asks! Such pride from the world of men. Very well, I ask a small bride-price in return, a simple thing.” 

And once asked, never to be unasked. Luthien felt her mother’s power recoil from the weight of the words, felt, for the first time, the distant sevenfold oathflame. Thingol’s invocation, pronounced in mockery, now demanded answer and answer it would have. 

She saw the black river of fate spread before her feet, at her side the mortal man and at its end, the shining gem. Behind them ran blood and fire and before them Melkor’s wrath. Beren had not come by chance, and not by chance were her father’s words. Rash, arrogant, yes, but beyond his purpose another will stirred. 

Her hand found Beren’s rough palm and her fingers entwined in his, pale in the dark. His fingers trembled, then caught and were still, the strength of his grip controlled and gentle. 

“What manner of man, king or father, would place his daughter’s worth so low as a bartered stone? I will bring you this gem, not as bride-price because she is not one whom any creature might buy or sell, but as a favor, to fulfill your greatest desire.” Beren bowed low, his tone as mocking as the king’s. He looked at Luthien and she saw a stranger bold and brave in him, one who would stand against Man, Elf, Maia and Valar. 

She stood rooted, mouth open to command him stay, hand open to let him go. She knew Thingol shouted in wrath. She knew Beren left the hall her champion, driven now not only by his fate but by the fury of the king, the scorn of his courts, the oath of the silmaril and deepest, his love for her. 

Two queens warred within her. One wanted Beren here, now, at any price, walled in against her father’s wrath and his own driving fate, bound to her and her alone. The other wanted him gone and away, wanted to see him triumphant with the gem, the price of their future. What would she be, queen of a beautiful prison or of a free heart? She was glad Beren was gone and could not see her struggle, and she looked on her father with new understanding. 

Melian spoke. “No hand grasps those stones and remains unburned. Do not discount the valor of the mortal so easily; if he may come and go in our kingdom, what power might stay his quest?” 

\---

He slew six orcs and five wolves. He ate their food and wore wolf hide until rot took it. Then he hunted another pack and slew four more. An orc scout surprised him; they fought and he was wounded, but victorious. The orc died at his feet, cursing him. 

He cleaned his wounds and wore the scout's cloak. Orc food was foul but kept him alive. He held the memory of Luthien's bread close to his heart as he choked on old flesh. 

Melain's labyrinth followed him and the darkness of Melkor rose before him. On the borders of their kingdoms he dreamed of great magic, the battle of enchantments twisting thought and horizon. No free land lay between them, no uncontested pool or glade where he might rest. He held the image of Luthien in his mind, followed the steps of her dance through the swirling madness until the borderlands were passed. Now malice alone, simple in its hatred, familiar and unsubtle, pressed on him. 

Malice he knew. Betrayal, hunger, bloodthirst, pain, the birthright of the free mortal born between greater powers. No maia championed the mortal people, no kingdom offered refuge. Beren slain his first orc in childhood, alongside his father now long dead. He had eaten wolf and worse, drunk from places of ruin and war. He had survived, as mortals must, by tooth and iron claw. 

The memory of the elven kingdom grew dim behind familiar needs. Hunt, kill, rest, run.  
Bleed. 

But the silmaril burned before him, a talisman now inscribed on his heart. Its cold, cursed light illuminated the face of his queen. He had hunted for his own life alone; now he hunted for her. Hunger was easier to bear, cold less chilling, wolves weaker and orcs rarer with her freedom in his grasp. What was the lord of all fell things to a man who served his queen?

\---

That night, Luthien dreamed of Beren on the edge of the wildlands, his cloak of her colors already stained by his blood. His sword was in his hand and behind him lay dead fell creatures, the small evil things her mother would not permit to pass. 

From the madness of enchantment to the madness of Melkor’s kingdom he had passed. From the scorn of the king to the wrath of the valar. And Luthien dreamed of him. She saw his armor grow worn, his clothing to rags. Saw his sword shatter on orc armor and his bow broken by wolf jaws. Saw him be driven like a beast, running before Melkor’s hunters. 

She saw him captured, beaten, chained. She saw him in darkness, and she knew, when the dreams stopped, he had forgotten her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, the oldest version has Beren get sent>captured by Melko>given to the cat prince>rescued by Luthien & Huan>live in the woods>go get the gem>wolf hunt ensues. The later version changes the cat prince Tevildo to Thu lord of werewolves/Sauron, and has Beren make a stop at Finrod's to pick up some allies. This produces the grand Finrod vs. Sauron song battle and later Huan vs. Sauron wolf battle. 
> 
> I haven't decided which route to take yet. Tevildo is clunky compared to Sauron but he's still a neat, much-overlooked character. I might try to combine things and go Tevildo > Luthien's first rescue/Luthien goes home & gets put up a tree > Beren goes to Finrod for help & gets captured by Sauron > Luthien's escape & second rescue, Finrod dies > Dance before Melkor & get the gem > Beren loses a hand & wolf hunt happens > Luthien's third rescue before Mandos and their return, finally both mortal and free. 
> 
> That's why Beren's end here is a bit ambiguous. Will get that nailed down in the next chapter :P


	3. Spoke the Cat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beren learns for all his experience as a wandering warrior, one man can only go so far alone. He underestimates Tevildo, and Thingol underestimates Luthien. 
> 
> \---  
> someday I will go back through this and make everyone's names match a single version, and add in all the accents, but that day is not today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beren hits a few low points in the tale. He's very good at surviving, both free and in captivity, but he's not that good at getting himself out of tight spots.

Beren knew the ways of the beasts, the ways of the mortal creatures thriving on grass and dew, unheeded by the greater powers. He clung to shadow and fern, passing unseen except to make his kill, and that fast and clean. He tasted the flesh of deer and wolves, ate the hard bread and foul fruits the orcs carried, but he would not touch orc-flesh. 

He grew hungry, but the silmaril’s light blazed before him. He slept not, stopped not, until he drew deep into his enemy’s territory. He cursed the silmaril and the hated quest, but he held Luthien’s voice in his heart and the steps of her dance in his soul. The silmaril before him and her behind, and so he went on, seeking it blindly. Not since his father’s death had he been driven by so strong a fate. He knew its hold on him and knew he could not abandon the quest- it had grown beyond the game of a man and queen, beyond even the proud words of a proud father. Seek the silmaril or go forever mad, one more soul to fuel the sevenfold blood-wrought oath. 

The wolves came to know his scent and the orcs watchful of the dark mortal murdering in the night. Spies were sent after him. Crows fed at his kill and returned to their masters, and he was hunted. Wolves came for him in packs, no longer arrogant but more dangerous for their fear. Orcs followed behind and after the wolves, they came upon him in numbers he could not defend against. 

He slew many but they were more. His sword bit deep and broke, his armor stripped, his flesh beaten and his limbs bound. He was dragged from the forest and into the open plains, the places he had not dared tread. Staked under an open sky, he shivered with cold starlight. The silmaril was near. He felt its icy dread, the pull of the oath, and wondered which power he bowed to now- his queen or the wrought gem? 

To question felt a betrayal, but to forget would be his death. What purpose did he have beyond the stone? And with the stone, what beyond her freedom? 

But he was mortal and hungry, and the orcs hated him. 

They brought him to a lonely fortress, against their master’s future wants, and left him chained in its dungeons.   
And the orcs left him there, but he was not alone. Orcs he knew, and wolves, and the spiders and tainted birds of the forest, but the beasts of the plains were new to him. Cats without number held the fortress in Melkor’s name and chief among them was Tevildo, a spirit clothed in catskin, a proud, beautiful, hateful beast. Beren did not know the cat prince and did not suspect his power, so he spoke boldly to the creature and bargained for his life. 

“What can you hunt that we cannot?” Tevildo answered him. “You might run about for sport, but even your sport would be poor.” 

“Let me prove myself,” Beren offered. “Make me a thrall and in trade for life I shall serve your kind.” 

So Tevildo made Beren his slave and swore not to kill him should the mortal be of service. Tevildo served Melkor, but cat-like answered truly to no master. He recognized in Beren bloodline of Beor and judged the mortal a worthy pawn, better under paw than underground, and kept to his promise not to kill Beren, though compared to cats he was slow and clumsy. 

Beren served the cats as they wished, as a scullion, as a hunter, and sometimes as their prey, and though he knew they would not kill him, there was much sport they might have of him before death. Sharp claws, white teeth and yellow eyes marked his dreams, and the bites on his flesh healed slowly. He learned to run before them, never fast enough; to hide, and know he would be found; to hunt, and always go hungry. Over this sport Tevildo presided, watching as the man waned under fear and pain until he knew himself no more. 

\---

Luthien knew dread and felt her queenship grow dim as Beren lost himself to the cat prince; what queen was she who lost her only subject? No. She must have him back.   
She would have him back. 

He belonged to _her._

\---  
Thingol turned her away in anger and swore to slay Beren should the mortal come before him again. Melian did not speak, but merely looked deep into her daughter’s eyes and read there the blossoming power and the growing shadow, intertwined promises of destiny and death. And in them, the mortal’s blood ran strong. 

Too strong. 

Luthien wore the mantle of queen lightly, still too young for the weight of a kingdom. She had not yet her father’s pride nor her mother’s power, but her desire for the mortal was kindling in her something Melian had never felt. Melian did not challenge the ways of the world. She held her kingdom and her king and was content within her borders. She did not desire any worldly thing, for herself or for another, beyond her own enclave. But her daughter saw beyond her borders and sought power on behalf of another- the power to bring freedom, to bring healing, and for those things, to challenge the ways of the world and upset balance between Melkor and Melian, destroyer and architect. 

No one escaped Melkor. No thrall returned. No freedom granted, no rescue. No hope of another dawn, once a captive entered his domain. Melian accepted this, but Luthien would not.   
“He will die, child,” she warned, but she knew Luthien’s answer before the girl spoke. 

“Then I will follow him. He is my kingdom and I am his queen. What daughter of the king would I be to abandon my champion so lightly?” 

“Would you enchant yourself to death, my child? Our kind do not age and die as they do, as he will; should he survive the dungeons of Melkor this world will still claim him.” 

“I would enchant death itself and win for him my fate. He belongs to me, not to any mortal end.” 

Melian held her silence to Thingol, though her daughter’s words pained her. Thingol was too proud a king to draw back his word, once spoken; there would be no pardon and no help for the mortal. When Dairon betrayed Luthien to Thingol, he had her bound and held, hemming her with walls of her people’s devising, turning the house of her father into a prison and her people into her jailors. 

Melian saw all this and said nothing, for she knew the need- Luthien was a child and the prison meant for a child. It would not hold a woman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tevildo only exists in the oldest version but he's too good to be forgotten. Instead of werewolves, Melkor gives Beren to a cat prince as a mouse-catcher, which he's terrible at, and Luthien gets to come rescue him. Beren's an elf in the Tevildo version, and Luthien's a lot more childish. Smart, yes, and powerful, but it's a fairy-tale, not an epic. The magic cloak and a few other things survive the transition to the next version but Tevildo doesn't.


	4. Wrought Stone, Wrought Flesh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Luthien grows up and Tevildo makes a riddle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How many ways can I spell tevildo, tevlido, teviold, tevlodo, tiveldo, telvido...

Desire made her prison. 

Did she want her crown of Beren’s loyalty more than her father wanted his crown of her presence? She thought, long she thought and planned in her tower. She would go, no, she would _escape_ , and she would find him and bring him back to himself. Or to herself? She paced the floor and thought. 

Greater magic was needed to pass through her father’s walls. Her mother’s walls were open to her, this she knew and trusted, but Thingol did not suffer rebellion, not from the lowest elf-page, not from the newest guard, and certainly not from her, the jewel of his crown. 

_As if in his power he wrought me, as the silmarils were wrought,_ she thought, and knew the thought to be true. She was no king’s possession, to be locked away in a treasure-box and displayed only before the choicest guests. 

And the thought rose before her, _as I wrought Beren?_

She shied from it. No. She remembered the hunted, haunted gleam of his wild-creature eyes, the warm forest sweat scent of him, the rough callouses on his hands. Beren was a free creature, free to come to her or to go, but now he was hobbled by a chain of her father’s devising. 

_And if I free him and he does not choose me? It was for my sake he took the shackle of the silmaril and for my sake he is now in Melkor’s keeping. If I go for his sake, and he turns from me…_

She shivered in her anger and her power, and the tower shivered with her. _I am not my father. I am not my mother. My kingdom will not be a prison._

And she saw the Girdle and the forest for what it was, a glimpse of the mirror’s edge between the two kingdoms, one of beauty and one of horror- and yet, the same. Both with their walls and warriors, both guarded by madness and bloodshed, both warded by cruel spells and ruled by iron-willed kings. Kings gone cold with desire, gone blind with lust for the work of others, for the hearts of others. What they did not own they sought to possess, what they could not possess they sought to unmake. Mercy it was on the mortal lands, for Melkor was opposed by Thingol, and mercy too for Thingol was opposed in turn. 

Beauty made her tower no less a prison, as beauty made the silmaril no less a curse. 

Her power was not for trapping and imprisonment. Not for the building of snares and madness. Not for the breaking of lesser wills and the shaping of others into her image. Not for ruling with blood and fear. 

She sent a messenger for her loom, another for her basin. Common tools, lesser things. 

Water. Weaving. Dreaming. Healing. 

Thingol had once been a great king, wise in judgement and protective of his people. Protection became possession, not stewardship. Melain had once sought to create in balance of the destroyer, to unite her power with the elven kingdoms and give them hope against Melkor’s wrath. Her spells twisted to exclude, not rescue and brought madness, not escape. 

Luthien wove protection into her hair, the first jewel of her crown. She wove hope, and freedom. The open-handed love her father once held for her, the respect she found in her mother’s eyes. She wove in dreams of a world free of madness and torment, a world to seek and to create. She wove healing, the healing that ought to have been given freely to a mortal fleeing war, not offered in secret. She wove in rest, the rest her mother’s power once gave, free of sorcery and nightmare. She wove deep, deep sleep, peaceful sleep, sleep from which the mind wakes true to itself, without fear and false memory. 

She wove her kingdom into her hair. She wove herself. 

And then she walked free. 

 

Guards fell, soundless and noiseless. She passed gatekeepers and soldiers, watchers and spies. All bowed with sleep at her passing. They would wake unharmed, refreshed, free of weariness and worry. She walked through the kingdom, through forest, glade and river, until she passed the girdle and stepped into contested land beyond.  


The scent of old blood and whisper of ghosts, a well-trodden battlefield laced with fear. Luthien crossed from forest verge to unguarded hill and out under the harsh open sky, following the certainty in her mind and the ache in her heart. Before her mountains rose dark and steep, crossed by orc-paths and snares, hunting wolves and twisted beasts.  


Days she walked to reach the Mountains of Night, and days she climbed their steep sides. Free of the girdle, unprotected, she felt the fear of the land around her. Into her it seeped, clinging to her cloak and feet, until she dreamed of lost young and hunted creatures, until she fled the open sky as Beren had and hid in shadows and twilight. She walked safe, her cloak about her, but to her eyes the world about tore at her and wore her down, as water wore down stone.  


As the press of time on mortals was the grief of the war-torn land on her. She passed graves of unknown mortals, burned villages and holds long-ruined, tilled fields long to seed and orchards of rotted fruit. Stone-paved paths overgrown, doorless houses and silent pastures, all empty witness to the destroyer’s reach. Where had the people gone? Fled to distant lands, or deep in Melkor’s mines?  


She touched the grave-stones and whispered words of peace, small comfort though it be to living, captive kin.  


And she wondered at the strength of Beren, who passed the mountains alone and lived, who thrived on the strife and struggle of the mortal world. His life a breath before her own, and yet he demanded to live. She held his image before her as she climbed the orc-trail to the summit. She remembered his eyes fixed on her, the way his hands stilled under her own, his vow of fealty before her father, and she walked through sleeping wolves and serpents’ lairs, through spider-wood and black water, through ruins dark and graveyards full, until she stood on the border of the shadowed country and looked down upon the stone towers of Tevildo’s keep.  


The man who crossed the world and breached her mother’s wall, who refused to bow to the destroyer and went out in challenge of the sevenfold oath, that man lay captive to the beasts below.  


She drew her cloak close about her, remembering her weaving and her purpose, remembering he was not the only captive; though she shook with desire to strike hated stone from cursed foundation, _I am not the destroyer,_ she thought.  


Down to the stone fortress she climbed, down onto the sunlit terraces where the great cats of Melkor lazed in warmth they denied their thralls. Lesser cats slept as she passed, stirring not, but the greater beast, the doorkeeper, met magic for magic and questioned her purpose.  


“I have heard much of the royal place here,” she spoke low and calm, with honor and flattery. “In song it is named the Sun-warmed Gem, the Great Palace of Cats, and the Keep of the Night-eyed, Unblinking Guardians of the Mountains.” She spoke names she thought of, honors she guessed and complements she knew from court flattery, for all courts and kings are in some way alike. 

And she guessed well, for the guard purred and led her within with words of pride for the king of the fortress, Tevildo. 

She smelled the bitter scent of old cat, the fear-scent of living prey and the ash-dust reek of twisted magics. Gold flashed at throats, chains rattled in corners. Rotted cloth draped what once was a strong mountain hold, now a place of bones and vermin. Cats without number slunk in shadows, gem eyes narrowed to the stranger. Collared thralls crept back from her, among them human, wild-elf, dwarf and dog, but none of them the one she sought. 

But her heart said he was near, very near. 

Tevildo, black from nose to tail, held court in the dark hall. His eyes glittered yellow and his collar was heavy with gems and spells. “You have come a great distance, maiden,” he said. “You smell of wind and grass, not stone and mist. Tell me why you have come to my court.” 

Luthien bowed low, a mockery cloaked in honor, and flattered him as she had his door guard. She spoke of his legendary prowess, of his peerless fur and all-seeing eyes, of his keen nose and razor claws. She wove her words with words of pride and contentment, with subtle spells of hunger sated and sleepy comforts. 

\---

Other cats curled and lay purring in sleep, but not Tevildo. He sat and watched her, moving only the tip of his tail, and cat-like held his council. He knew her scent from the man Beren and he guessed her purpose, but not her name. Elf though she was, and elf was enough- Melkor rewarded his capture of elves over mortals, and the wild-elves of the mountains were nothing to a true elvish lady. Doubtless she was of some royal line; his own lord would know which. For him the capture and sport, and then the reward at Melkor’s hand. 

So he set himself against her and held her sleep-spell at bay. 

“Silver-tongued maiden you are, and spell-tongued too, but you did not come here to speak pretty words. You amuse me though, more so than any wandering elfling before you. I will give you a game, a small sport of the sort we play in warm sunlight. Would you challenge a cat at the catching of moths or the arranging of mice? At the counting of ants or the cleaning of fur? No, maiden, I think your skill lies elsewhere.” 

He paced before her, making a show of thinking. “Silver-tongued and spell-tongued you are, so here I give you a riddle. Maiden, answer my riddle and walk free. Fail, and stay here my thrall, to speak great words of me to all who come before my court.” 

\---

Luthien gripped her cloak and held herself firm in her purpose. She was queen here, with her kingdom so close at hand. But not among the collared slaves. Where was he? She must play the cat’s game to gain time. No oath she gave the craven creature would hold her here, and she trusted the sharpness of its claws over the sweetness of its promises to her. 

“Great cat, king of cats, you do me honor by your words. I humbly entreat you, let your riddle grace my presence, let my mind be bent upon its meaning so I may ponder your wisdom.” 

Tevildo’s black fur rippled like velvet and his claws flashed in the darkness. 

“What walked beside you and now before you,  
What spoke your name and now your doom,  
What held your crown and now your heart,  
What hand shall carve upon your tomb?” 

 

_Beren_ she breathed, but for so easy an answer, not the whole of it. 

Find him, the riddle said. Name him. Recognize him. Not where, but what. 

Enchantment barred enchantment and the collar of the cat winked with sorcery. To overcome him by force would bring down the keep and destroy all within it. She could not find him with spells or unveil him with magic. No, this was another game. 

She gathered her cloak and folded it, and the court around her awoke. She walked among the thralls but he was not there, not in elf-skin or dwarf-skin or dog-skin. She walked among the caged food-beasts but he was not mouse or fish or dove. She walked among the objects of use, but he was not a basket or jar, not a cushion or stone. 

So she turned to the cats and walked among them, heeding not their growls and spits. One by one she passed them by, watching shoulders move for the way he moved, watching eyes for his gaze on her, watching ears for how he listened for danger, watching paws for the tremble in his fingers. 

And one among them looked back at her, one among them snarled and spat, tail lashing, fur rising, ears flat, claws out, lashing for her but never striking, snarling but never leaping. Yes, her heart said. Yes, spelled and ensnared, afraid and unknowing, seeing her as Tevildo made him see. 

She reached for him, and she moved not when dirty claws caught her skin. She held herself still, as still as in the glade at their first meeting, as still as the breath before the first dance, and then she reached for him. Slowly, with caution and comfort, she touched the scared wild creature. Under the broad cat head was his flesh. Beneath the claws his fingers meshed with hers. He was there, just there, just beyond the spell of cat-skin. 

Spell by spell, whisker by hair, she took the skin from him. She knew his flesh, his scars and callouses, his scent of sweat and forest. She knew the curve of his throat and the set of his shoulders, the height of his standing and just how his scars crossed his skin. His fealty was her crown but there, as she fleshed him back from the sorcerer’s beast, for a breath he held more and deeper of her than title.  
Doom indeed, she thought. 

_Cat, you have prophesied more than you know._

And Beren stepped from the cat-skin and reaching fast took hold of Tevildo by the collar. “No more your thrall, beast of Melkor,” he said, and broke its bindings. 

The power of Tevildo was shattered that day and his stone keep cast open. Cats fled and thralls walked free, mortal, elf and dwarf alike. With them walked Beren and Luthien, and Luthien pondered the cat’s words. Spirits, even twisted, evil spirits like Tevildo, knew what lay beyond the curve of earthly sight. As her fingers found Beren’s so her mind sought their future. 

He bowed to her power and mercy; would she bow to his mortal flesh?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this with my cat on my lap. He demanded Tevildo get a little dignity. Going with Huan meeting Luthien in Celegorm's castle instead of in the woods, so he doesn't get to chase Tevildo up a tree this time.


End file.
